Margaret’s father listened with rapt attention to CBS World News Roundup and, had he been a betting man, said that he’d put his money on Truman over the man who currently held the position, Henry Wallace. Conservative Democrats feared that a Wallace administration would be far too progressive, favoring labor and alienating the businessmen among the party.
She didn’t have a strong opinion either way, never having thought even a year ago that politics was something that affected her. But now she had the sense that it was a responsibility of adulthood that she needed to embrace and vowed as she stood there to start listening along with her father. The decision for the nomination was a month away when the party met in Chicago, so she had time to catch up. But if that all came about as her father predicted, she might be looking at a future president of the United States.
Just one more reason for her blood to rush with anticipation today.
The spectacle was enough to send patriotic sentiments through anyone’s veins. She could understand Gladys’s passion just a bit better. Gladys had seen the world let her mother down—so she crusaded for improvement at every corner. Charitable outlets. Rights for women. Politics. When one had been affected so greatly, the fire to promote change was an infectious one. Bringing the realities in the country into alignment with the feelings such events produced.
Margaret would do well to learn from her example.
Senator Truman tapped the microphone and an immediate silence descended upon the crowd. Margaret missed the first of his words as they were scattered into the breeze, but once she focused, she was able to discern most of it.
“The christening and launching of this greatest warship of all time illustrates the decisive answer which the democracies of the world are making to the challenge of the aggressor nations.”
His speech was interrupted by intermittent cheers.
“Missouri is the Show Me state,” he continued. “The battleship Missouri will show all Americans—indeed, all the world—her innate seaworthiness, her valiant fighting spirit and the invincible power of the United States Navy. Today, Missouri joins hands with her sister states throughout the Union in asking the blessing of Divine Providence upon this magnificent battleship and upon her valiant men.”
His left hand formed a fist and he pounded the podium for emphasis.
Margaret felt it like a heartbeat.
She thought of John. Of how this battleship and the others like it would avenge his tragic death. It would ensure the safety of William and Tom and the other boys like them who had risked everything and would love nothing more than to sit back at the table with their families and go about living the lives they had always dreamed of.
She would write to William of this moment. This event so spectacular that already she was struggling with the right words, even among her vast bank of them.
“May this great ship,” Truman concluded, “be an avenger to the barbarians who wantonly slaughtered the heroes of Bataan and may the battleship Missouri and all the other ships of our Navy do their full share on behalf of the people of the United States to maintain the peace which will follow our total victory.”
A cheer went up as the crowd squealed with unified delight, as if it were one breathing being and not thousands combined. Margaret, Dottie, and Gladys contributed their own shouts, feeling the swell of pride in their very bones.
Truman’s daughter, also named Margaret, was the sponsor of the event. At his word, she leaned far over the railing, raised the bottle of champagne in her hand, and, buoyed by the crowd, smashed it against the bow of the ship. Immediately, bubbles poured down its seam and the flags attached to its top flapped as if giving their approval. Glass shattered into the water like confetti. At that signal, the Missouri floated away from the dock with surprising speed, as if propelled by magic instead of the meticulous engineering. In just seconds, she had already cleared the confines of the Brooklyn Navy Yard and made her way into the East River, leaving whitecapped waves in her wake.
* * *
“It was simply the most magnificent thing I’ve ever seen,” Margaret waxed to her parents at dinnertime. “Gosh, I wish you had both been there.”
Her father shrugged in the humble way she’d always loved. Her mother had a summer cold and he hadn’t wanted to leave her side in case she needed anything. While she laid down and listened to Guiding Light, he made a dinner of his own creation. A tough piece of pork cutlet and some undercooked green beans. But the love he put into them made them delicious. And besides, the food was far less important than the company.
“It’s enough that you were there and can tell us all about it,” her mother added. Her face looked tired, but her eyes glistened. “We’re so proud of you.”
Her words meant a great deal to Margaret, though they also inadvertently placed some anxiety in her heart. Without John, the burden of honoring her parents, of taking care of them, and of helping at the cobbler shop fell entirely on her shoulders.
And her father was noticeably slowing down. He didn’t want to give up the business, but the pace of the city was wearing on him and he would need her help if he was going to keep it up.
How would she even do that? Would she have to give up her job at the Navy Yard? She had no particular love for the engraving section, but she liked being a part of something that mattered as much as it did.
She’d hoped that working in the Navy Yard would help her decide what she wanted her future to look like. Gladys’s ambitions had opened her eyes to possibilities for women that she’d never dreamed about. And yet—when she held little Joanna in her arms, a love bloomed that lay deeper than anything she could have expected, inspiring a desire for one of her own one day.
Could a woman not find a way to have both?
Margaret would have thought the events of the day would have made her eager to nestle into the softness of her feather mattress, but she found herself unable to sleep. She got up well before the sun to pen her thoughts into a letter to William. She had been given the day off, despite it being a Monday, along with most of the women who had exhausted themselves with the festivities of the day before. Still, she found herself unable to sleep in late, as it had never been her habit.
She put on a light sweater and walked the letter out to the nearest blue mailbox. She hesitated before sending it off.
Increasingly, her thoughts turned toward writing to William. At first, she’d written to give some cheer to a soldier who was not otherwise hearing from home. Then his presence as a friend to John had warmed her heart. But as the months ticked by, penning words to him had become as cathartic as a diary and as vital as oxygen.
Especially of late. There was something about the last couple she’d received. It was almost imperceptible, the change she’d noticed. The letters had the same handwriting. The same flowers Tom sketched at the end. But the words—there was something about the words that was just a little more…fluid. A little more deep. As if he’d revealed a keyhole to his heart and she was the one being allowed to peek through.
Was that love? She didn’t think so. Though her heart beat quicker when an envelope bearing his handwriting arrived at their door, and though she looked forward to embroidering the latest iteration of English flowers for him, she didn’t think there was any more to it than the anticipation of a source of joy. Much like knowing that you were going to the ice cream parlor on Sunday. And then the pleasure when that day came.